


All We Have Is a Bunch of Sad Stories

by electricshoebox



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Angst, Explicit Consent, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Masturbation, one shots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-02
Updated: 2015-09-29
Packaged: 2018-04-07 06:11:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 10,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4252338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricshoebox/pseuds/electricshoebox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of one shot prompt fics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bull/Dorian - Redecorating

**Author's Note:**

> I thought it might be nice to have all of the prompt fics I've done on tumblr in one place, and any I'll do in the future. I'll mark the pairings per chapter. Title is adapted from "Four Walls" by Broods.
> 
> ETA: I should probably mention that my Dragon Age tumblr is redredribbon, you're welcome to follow. I'm sure I'll do many more prompt fic memes in the future, they're great for getting me writing.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original prompt: "You did all of this for me?"

The strap of Bull’s pack slipped from his fingers and thudded heavily to the floor, forgotten. Bull glanced back over his shoulder, then up at the door, then back into the bedroom. He… did have the right room, didn’t he? He was sure this was the room he claimed, but this was certainly not how he left it.

Taking a slow step inside, his eye wandered over the ceiling. Three weeks ago, he’d left it as full of holes and old, damp wood as he’d found it; now, the wood overhead was whole and smooth. The wardrobe in the corner with the door hanging precariously on its hinges was gone. In its place sat a bigger one made of a fine, reddish wood, ornately carved, with polished dawnstone handles on the doors. A wooden weapon stand was next to it, holding the old axe he’d been keeping near the hearth. And the _bed_.

He’d claimed a lopsided, creaky monstrosity of a bed frame with a slightly lumpy mattress because it was the only one that kept his feet from hanging off the end. The headboard was cracked and scarred, and one of the feet of the bed frame was broken, but it held his weight (and more), and that was fine. Now, a bed frame every bit as broad but polished and unbroken stood in its place, with a soft, patterned quilt spread beneath several fluffy-looking pillows, including a few that were small and narrow enough for him to rest his head on without catching his horns. They were pink.

“Well, don’t keep me in suspense. What do you think?”

Bull smiled. Dorian’s voice was warm, but with just the slightest edge to it. He heard the door frame creak as Dorian leaned on it behind him.

“I think,” said Bull, turning, his smile widening, “I should’ve given you a key to my room months ago if I’d known I’d get new furniture out of it.”

“Ah, so you’ve been using me for my endless pile of gold, I might’ve known,” Dorian said. His lips quirked into a tentative grin.

Bull stepped over his pack and slid his hands around Dorian’s waist, and watched Dorian’s face slowly relax into a real smile. (Oh, Bull would never grow tired of that smile.)

“You did all of this for me?” Bull said, rubbing circles into Dorian’s sides.

Dorian shrugged. “I suppose if you want to be technical, it was mostly the requisition officer and that army of dwarf builders Adaar has– _mmf_.”

Bull swallowed the rest with a kiss, and then another, and the another. Dorian laughed against his lips, his hands sliding up Bull’s shoulders. He pressed closer, and Bull wrapped his arms around him.

“So you like it?” Dorian breathed as they finally parted.

“I love it,” Bull said, unable to keep from smiling again. “Thank you.”

“Yes, well, my motivations were entirely selfish, I assure you,” Dorian said, his lips quirking again. “If I’m going to be spending even more time in here with you, I require a proper roof and a decent bed. Non-negotiable, I’m afraid.”

“Then I suppose it’s a good thing you took the liberty,” Bull said. “I’ve got a condition of my own, though.”

“How demanding, after all my hard work,” said Dorian, but he was still smiling. “And what is this condition?”

“You help me break in that bed.”

Dorian hummed, raising an eyebrow in thought. Then he grinned, drawing Bull back to his lips. “I think that could be arranged.”


	2. Nathaniel/Velanna - Gifts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original prompt: "I got you a present."

“Stop looking at me like that,” Velanna said, flushing, turning her face to the battlements.

“Like what?” Nathaniel said.

“Like that,” Velanna risked a glance back up at his face–his grinning, bright-eyed, unfairly handsome face–and frowned.

“You are the one who invited me here and would not tell me why, my lady,” said Nathaniel, crossing his arms. “How would you like me to look?”

“Just stop grinning like that,” Velanna said, shifting, her arms stiff behind her back.

“Very well,” Nathaniel’s lips dropped immediately into an exaggerated scowl, his eyebrow raised. “Better?”

“You’re impossible,” Velanna said, with far less heat than she intended.

“Are you planning on keeping me in suspense all day?” Nathaniel said.

“Fine. I… I got you a present,” Velanna mumbled, moving her hands in front of her and holding out a little package wrapped haphazardly in red linen.

Nathaniel took the gift, slowly untying the cloth. Inside was a brand new quill, the feather pristine and soft, the metal point polished enough to shine. 

“I…I know you’re the one who left a quill on my desk when my tip broke,” Velanna said, clearing her throat. “I…thought it only fair I…repay you.”

Nathaniel looked up at her. Oh, Creators, why did he have to have such a handsome smile? And when it spread over his lips like that, slow, warm, happy…

“Thank you,” he said softly, and Velanna’s eyes snapped back up to his.

“Yes. Well. You’re…you’re welcome,” Velanna said, then barely swallowed back a gasp when his hand reached to grasp hers.

“I’ll think of you when I use it,” he said.

Velanna felt her cheeks heat, and knew from the way his smile turned playful that she must be bright red. She coughed, pulling her hand away.

“I need to get back,” she said quickly, moving past him. She felt his gaze on her all the way back down the hall.


	3. Dorian and Sera Play Matchmaker (mentioned Cass/Josie)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original prompt: "This is, without a doubt, the stupidest plan you've ever had. I'm in."

“You want to do what?”

Dorian pushed his ale aside, pressing his hands to the table. Sera was perched on her chair across from him with one leg thrown over the back, plucking at the end of an arrow. She rolled her eyes.

“Oh come on. Everyone can see it. They’re bonkers for each other, they’ve just got their heads on backwards and they won’t do anything about it,” Sera said. “Didn’t you see them when–”

“Yes, of course, I’m not blind,” Dorian said, waving a hand. “But you’re talking about… I’m honestly not even certain what you’re talking about.”

“It’s not that difficult, yeah?” Sera slid her leg free and swung forward in the chair. “I get a bunch of marbles laid out in front of her door when no one’s looking, right? Then I go and tell Cassandra they want her for some war table shite. And while I’m doing that, you watch the door. Then when you see her coming, you call Little Lady Josie Boots out of her office. She trips on the marbles, Cassandra saves the day, and boom! Romance.”

“You could seriously injure her, you know,” Dorian leaned back, frowning.

“Not if you do your part right, yeah?” Sera said. “Or save her yourself if you muck it up, don’t be an arse and just watch her fall on hers.”

Dorian rubbed his temples. “This is, without a doubt, the stupidest plan you’ve ever had.”

Sera crossed her arms, raising an eyebrow.

Dorian sighed. “I’m in.”


	4. Bull/Dorian - Flirting in the Winter Palace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original prompt: "Wait a minute, are you jealous?"

Dorian smirked around his champagne glass as he surveyed the Winter Palace’s grand ballroom. The dance floor was a sea of masks and jewels and silks, and the rest of the room was filled with laughter and whispers in equal measure. It was almost enough to make him homesick. Though, of course, the magisterial galas never afforded him a sight quite like the Iron Bull in a tightly-tailored uniform. Dorian let his eyes drift over the curve of Bull’s ass as he stood near a pillar several feet away, talking to Cullen. Dorian had been dreadfully disappointed when Josephine informed him of the required attire until Bull stepped into the hall. Dorian decided then and there–-privately, of course, as Bull already took far too much pleasure teasing Dorian as it was-–that he could endure the uniform if it he got a good view while doing it.

Bull glanced up then, a lazy smile rolling across his lips as their eyes met. Dorian smirked again, raising his glass a little before finishing it off. Bull’s eyes fell to his lips, and Dorian, emboldened by the alcohol and the atmosphere, welcomed the heat that spread through his chest. Bull’s eyes slid away, glancing over his shoulder at something, then back at Cullen, who was saying something and shaking his head. Bull laughed, and Cullen patted his shoulder before taking his leave. Bull looked back to Dorian, and smiled again, sauntering over.

“You’re breaking hearts tonight,” Bull said, leaning his back against the wall where Dorian stood.

“Is that so?” Dorian raised an eyebrow. Bull smirked, and nodded toward something in front of them. Dorian followed his gaze to a gentleman decked top to toe in blue silk, an elaborate, bejeweled mask hiding his face. He was walking toward them, but stopped short when he caught sight of Bull settling next to Dorian. He hesitated, then turned quickly on his heel, fleeing toward a champagne tray at the other side of the room.

“He’s been making eyes at you since we got here,” said Bull. Dorian looked up at him. “Think he thought you were toasting him.”

“Keeping tabs on who’s interested in me, are you?” Dorian said. “Wait a minute, are you jealous?”

Bull laughed, the sound carrying over a group of nobles chattering nearby. They turned to stare, and Dorian stiffened, glaring at Bull. If Bull noticed, he apparently saw no reason to care.

“You wanna go after him?” Bull said once he caught his breath. “I’ll even go over there for you, tell him you like his outfit. Tell him you’re curious what’s under the mask.” He leaned a little closer, tilting his head to keep his horns in check, lowering his voice. “You can tell me about it later.”

“Please, you deviant, this is supposed to be a civilized party,” Dorian said, swatting lightly at Bull’s shoulder, ignoring the warmth Bull leaning near sent over his skin. (He’d blame it on the blighted uniform, if pressed.) “And we are supposed to be paying attention.”

“Mm-hmm,” Bull said, lips quirking up. “I saw you paying plenty of attention to my ass, earlier.”

“Yes, well,” Dorian said, clearing his throat and briefly thanking the Maker for the dim light hiding the blush he felt creeping across his cheeks. “It’s not my fault you only ever wear those ridiculous ship sails you claim are pants.”

“So, like the view, then, do you?” Bull said, turning a little, smiling when Dorian rolled his eyes. Bull’s gaze drifted lower. “I know I do.”

“It is my curse to make even the drabbest uniform look ravishing,” said Dorian.

Bull leaned closer once more, reaching for Dorian’s empty champagne glass and bringing his lips right next to Dorian’s ear. “I’ll show you ravishing.”

Dorian felt a small nip on his earlobe, just the lightest scrape of teeth, but it was enough to send lightning skittering down Dorian’s spine. Then Bull was pulling away again, setting the glass on a passing waiter’s empty tray.

Dorian tried to remember how to breathe. He glanced around them quickly, but the nobles that had been staring earlier had returned to their conversation, and no one else seemed to be paying them any mind. No one had seen. So he looked back up at Bull, his eyes flicking to Bull’s lips and then back up.

“Promise?” he said.

Bull’s grin was luminous.


	5. Bull/Dorian - Remembering the Ill-Considered Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original prompt: "Come over here and make me."

When Dorian remembers that first night in Bull’s bed, it’s always with a small, secret smile tucking into the corners of his lips. Because even now, all these months (Maker, it’s past a year now) later, it still sends a little thrill through his body. As he sits in the tavern waiting for Bull to join him, he hides that little smile behind a tankard of ale and lets his mind drift back to it.

It was good. That goes without saying. It’s always been good. Bull’s always been good. And so has Dorian. But what he remembers more than what came after is what came before.

He drank with the Chargers that night, and kept on drinking as they all left, one by one, until only he and Bull remained, across the table from one another. Bull looked at Dorian as the last of the boys wandered out the tavern door, and Dorian felt his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

“So, Dorian,” Bull said, the way he’d started a thousand other flirting conversations in a thousand other places. Easy, casual, the sort of teasing Dorian could shrug off if he really wanted. “You gonna stare at me all night, or you gonna do something about it?”

Dorian remembers his whole body tingling. And maybe that was the four or five ales he’d swallowed down, or maybe it was the glint in Bull’s eye, or maybe it was the rumble in his voice. Maybe it was all three. Dorian suddenly felt the line they had been walking as if it were a tangible thing beneath his feet, trembling under the weight of the possibility, ready to snap. Dorian grabbed the edge of the table, hauling himself up to sit with his shoulders squared. He remembers smiling an invitation (the sort of expression that tells a man across the room at a boring party–without any treacherous or dangerous words spoken–that he’ll meet him in the hall closet in five minutes). Practiced, clear, confident, and charming.

“Come over here and make me.”

He’s not prepared for the heat in Bull’s eye to ignite.

Oh, he’s seen the expression countless times since, seen the moment when Bull’s teasing crosses firmly into red hot intent. And he loves it, every time. But there was something about that moment, the first moment he ever saw the change, the heat, the promise, and knew that they would not be the same for it.

Bull stood, rounding the table slowly, keeping their eyes locked, and Dorian lifted his chin and kept his shoulders level and did not look away.

“I’m not sure you know what you’re asking,” Bull said, stopping before Dorian’s chair.

“You’ve been painting such a pretty picture of it for weeks,” Dorian said, waving his hand vaguely at Bull. “Flexing and flaunting and all that nonsense about ‘inclined to do the forbidden.’ I think I get the idea.”

“Do you?” Bull said, stepping even closer.

“You tell me to do something about it, then you’re the one that’s stalling,” Dorian said.

He couldn’t hold back the gasp when Bull leaned all the way over him, hands covering Dorian’s wrists on each arm rest. Dorian remembers the touch hitting his senses like lightning, a jolt straight through him that left him trembling in the wake. He couldn’t help darting a look around them, but the tavern was nearly empty, and he almost–almost–didn’t care anyway. His eyes landed back on Bull’s, and there was a fire in them. Dorian needed it to consume him.

“Last chance,” Bull said. Dorian wonders if he felt it then too, that they were standing on the edge of something too big to understand.

To this day, Dorian doesn’t know what made him bold enough to do it. There was still shame boiling in his gut back then, still fear and hesitance and suspicion, and all of it would still be there for too many nights afterward. But right then, whether by the courage he found at the bottom of his tankard or by the lust blazing wild and strong beneath his skin, Dorian did one of the best things he had, and has, ever done in his life.

He kissed the Iron Bull with absolutely everything he had.

Dorian smiles that small, secret smile, and closes his eyes, remembering that first taste of Bull’s lips on his. Addictive. There isn’t any other word for it. Addictive, sweet, strong, perfect. And more than anything, right. It felt–feels–right.

“Hey, you with me?”

Long fingers slide over Dorian’s shoulders, and Dorian doesn’t hide the smile on his lips. He lifts a hand to thread his fingers around Bull’s and looks up at him.

“Yes.”


	6. Nathaniel/Velanna - Trapped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original prompt: "Looks like we'll be trapped for awhile."

Velanna feels the wood give under her feet just moments after the last darkspawn falls. It’s a shallow pit, with the boards laid haphazardly over the top, likely in a hurry. That’s what she got for not watching her step, it seemed, though it was rather difficult to keep an eye on her feet when she had three genlocks rushing toward her all at once. The boards collapsed with a loud crack, and Velanna careened down with them, landing in a heap of broken wood and dirt. She felt a sharp pain shoot through her ankle.

Nathaniel rushed across the room and slid to his knees at the edge of the pit, Sigrun and the Commander fast on his heels. Velanna tried to push herself up from the boards, but pain wrenched through her foot and she cried out.

“Maker, Velanna, are you all right?” Nathaniel said, leaning over the edge of the pit.

“Do I look all right?” she snapped. She reached shaky fingers toward her ankle, trying to summon a healing spell. Her fingertips glowed a gentle green, but the spell failed, her magic exhausted from the fight.

“Flames!” she growled. “I can’t heal it. I have nothing left.”

The pit was shallow enough, fortunately, that it likely only came to her shoulders when standing, but it didn’t seem like standing was going to be an option any time soon. The light was dim, but Velanna could see her ankle was swelling. Wonderful. This was supposed to be a simple day run through a new chamber uncovered in the Deep Roads not far from the Keep. So much for simple.

“I can run back,” Sigrun offered, glancing to the Warden-Commander. “Bring Anders back with me. It’ll be a couple hours, but…”

“I’ll come with you,” the Commander said. “After that ambush, I don’t want any of us alone. Nathaniel, stay here with her, make sure she doesn’t try to move it.”

“I do not need–” Velanna started, but they were already gone, and Nathaniel was climbing over the side. He picked his way carefully over the broken boards until he reached her ankle, squinting at it.

“I’m not the best judge, but I don’t think it’s broken,” he said.

“You should’ve stayed up there, kept watch,” Velanna said, wincing as she shifted.

Nathaniel glanced at her, then slowly stood, his head well above the lip of the pit.

“Oh no,” he said, pointedly resting an arm along the edge. “Whatever was I thinking, checking on you?”

Velanna glared, then winced again, the pain in her ankle beginning to throb.

“Looks like we’ll be trapped for awhile,” he said, moving away from the edge and picking his way over to her. He moved a few broken boards so he could sit next to her.

Velanna huffed, but as soon as he settled, she shifted enough to rest her head back against his shoulder. She murmured, “At least you’re slightly more comfortable than these boards.”

“My lady is too kind,” Nathaniel said, but he wrapped an arm around her anyway.


	7. Bull/Dorian - News from home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original prompt: sad kiss

The letter falls from Dorian’s hands, gliding to the floor, forgotten.

“It’s my father,” he says as Bull rounds the bed. “The illness…”

Bull kneels before him, hands reaching for Dorian’s arms. Dorian bows his head.

“It shouldn’t…” he starts, then swallows. He tries again. “I didn’t think it would…” But his voice breaks.

Bull moves closer, and places a gentle kiss to the top of Dorian’s head. Dorian leans into Bull, pressing their foreheads together. His hands shake when they rise to Bull’s neck.

“I’m sorry,” Bull whispers. He hears Dorian draw a sharp, watery breath. The grip on Bull’s neck tightens–grateful, helpless.

When Dorian kisses him, Bull tastes salt on his lips.


	8. Bull/Dorian - Keeping private affairs private

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original prompt: "I'm sorry" kiss

“Do you have to encourage him?” Dorian says, stalking toward the fireplace as Bull follows him into his room.

Bull presses the door closed with one hand. “Who? Varric? It’s flattering.”

“It’s invasive,” Dorian sighs. “And likely extremely inaccurate.”

“Hey, he wouldn’t ask if he didn’t care about accuracy,” Bull says, crossing the room. “He could’ve just made it all up.”

“I don’t understand why he has to write it at all,” Dorian folds his arms, glaring at the fire.

Bull’s hands wrap around his shoulders, and Dorian lets Bull turn him. Bull looks down at him with concern as he asks, “Does it really bother you?”

Dorian sighs again, relaxing a little under Bull’s fingers. “I just… not everyone needs to know the sordid details of our relationship. Some things… I’d rather just stay between us. It’s no concern of anyone else’s. And I don’t…” He swallows, his eyes finally rising to meet Bull’s. “I don’t want them to treat it like a joke.”

Bull’s expression softens as he takes Dorian’s chin in his hand. As he studies Dorian’s face—the determined set of his lips, the rapidly flushing cheeks—he feels the weight of the admission, and words fail him. So he leans down, pressing a kiss to Dorian’s lips instead. And if it’s tenderer than ever before, slower and sweeter, well… Bull hopes that says enough.

“I’m sorry,” Bull whispers against Dorian’s lips, and Dorian just smiles, reaching up to cradle Bull’s head as he pulls Bull back into another kiss.

When they finally part, Dorian brushes his nose against Bull’s and smiles. “Make it up to me?”


	9. Bull/Dorian - Bull gets injured

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original prompt: Return from the dead kiss

“You’re going to wear a hole in the ground, altus,” Krem says. Dorian stops his pacing long enough to glare, but Krem doesn’t look up from cleaning his mallet.

“You cannot possibly tell me you’re unconcerned,” Dorian says, folding his arms. The image of the dragon tossing its great head and Bull crumpling to the ground flashes through his mind once more. His fingers curl into fists and he starts pacing again.

“Chief’s been through a lot,” Krem says, pushing the cloth carefully over the mallet head. “Think it’ll take a lot more to take him down. Besides, Stitches knows his stuff, and Madame de Fer is a legend. He’s in good hands.”

“Forgive me if I do not share your—“ Dorian starts, but then the tent flap opens. Vivienne steps outside, and when she sees him, she inclines her head.

“A nasty knock on the head, to be sure,” she says. “But no other injuries. He’s a little winded, but I suspect he shall make a full recovery.”

“There, see?” says Krem, but it’s lost as Dorian runs past her, barreling into the tent. Bull is already back on his feet, talking quietly with Stitches. They both look up as the tent flap rips open.

Dorian marches straight up to Bull and grabs his horns, yanking him down into a kiss that leaves them both panting. He kisses Bull desperately, even frantically, his knuckles white around Bull’s horns. He doesn’t pull away until Stitches clears his throat.

“Don’t you ever do that again,” Dorian growls as Bull blinks down at him, wide-eyed.

“Kadan—“

Dorian drags him back down to his lips. Stitches just chuckles, closing the flap behind him.


	10. Bull/Dorian - Afterglow in the Winter Palace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original prompt: giggly kiss

It’s a good night. Bull’s fairly certain their laughter could be heard all the way back to Halamshiral’s grand ballroom from the side bedroom they’ve stumbled into, but Dorian doesn’t seem to care in the slightest. He lays across Bull’s chest, the pieces of their uniforms strewn about the room, except for the blue sashes, which still dangle from the headboard. The empress is safe, the boss is happy, and the world isn’t going to end in the next few hours. Plus, Bull got a few good fights in, and a barrel’s worth of free champagne. It’s a good night.

“Did you see the way that guard glared when we wandered in here?” Dorian says. He pushes himself higher on Bull’s chest, trying to scowl, falling into a truly terrible Orlesian accent. “Monsieur, zis wing is off lee-mits.”

“I just can’t believe he fell for that excuse,” Bull says, and Dorian dissolves into giggles again, collapsing on Bull’s chest.

Dorian looks good like this. Well, Dorian always looks good, but this is special, something only Bull gets to see. Naked, flushed, unkempt, a little sweaty, and wildly, unabashedly happy. The firelight practically makes him glow like this, and Bull could kiss that beautiful smile. So he does.

Running his hands up Dorian’s sides, Bulls tugs him closer. Dorian laughs and leans up, smiling into the kiss, then the next, and the one after that. Bull trails nibbling kisses down Dorian’s jaw.

“We should do this in every room in the palace,” Dorian says, breathless. “Just to spite them.”

“Lead the way,” Bull murmurs against his chin. Dorian just laughs and kisses him again.


	11. Carver/Merrill - Sunset on the Coast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original prompt: Shy kiss

“So you… come out here often?” Carver says. He sits at Merrill’s side, feet dangling off the edge of one of the Wounded Coast’s low cliffs. The tide crashes against the rocks below them, and Carver feels a little dizzy, but Merrill just rests her chin on her knee and stares out at the sunset.

“Well, sometimes,” she says. “Mostly when I’ve made a wrong turn in the market and can’t find my way back.”

She giggles a little, her cheeks reddening, and Carver has to swallow and look away. “Oh, I… uh, I guess that makes sense.”

“But it’s a pretty view, don’t you think?” she says, and Carver knows she’s smiling at him. He has to square his shoulders to look back her.

The glow of the sun, now a deep red as it settles low in the sky, wreathes her hair. Carver can’t breathe.

“Y-yeah,” he chokes out. “Very pretty.”

Merrill blinks at him for a moment, and then her eyes go wide. “Oh… oh you meant me, didn’t you? You’re looking at me like… oh, no, maybe you didn’t. Of course you didn’t. Oh that was a stupid thing to say, I… just… ignore me, I’m sorry.”

Carver feels something in his chest ease a little, and he manages a smile. “I… suppose I did, actually.”

“Oh,” Merrill’s head snaps back up. “You did?”

“Would you mind if I…” Carver leans a little closer, then looks down, smiling sheepishly.

“Oh! You want to kiss me!” Merrill says, then claps her hands over her mouth.

Carver laughs. “If that’s all right.”

Merrill nods, prying her hands away.

Her lips taste like the wind, blowing in from the sea.


	12. Bull/Dorian - Wait until you're sober

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original prompt: Drunk/sloppy kiss

“You’re drunk,” Bull says, raising an eyebrow. Dorian wobbles a little in front of the bed where Bull sits, but his smile is sly.

“So are you,” Dorian says, jabbing a finger into Bull’s chest. “But that dosh—dohs— _doesn’t_ mean I don’t know what I’m ab—about.”

Bull laughs. “Whatever you say, Dorian.”

“Come on,” Dorian says, stumbling a little closer. Bull automatically lifts his hands to Dorian’s waist, steadying him. “Here I am. I _know_ you want me.”

Bull smirks up at him. He isn’t wrong. This is the third night this week Dorian followed Bull up to his room, and Bull can’t deny he’d been hoping Dorian would keep coming back. The man is… well. Bull has tumbled into bed with many people. It’s always fun. But it isn’t usually memorable. Dorian? Dorian is… proving to be unforgettable.

And drunk. Very, very drunk.

“I want you,” Bull says, and Dorian smiles in triumph until Bull adds, “to remember what I’m going to do to you.”

Dorian actually pouts. Bull laughs. “Next time, big guy. I’ll make it worth the wait. And I’ll give you a good night kiss for your trouble.”

He leans close, keeping his hands loose on Dorian’s waist, and Dorian watches him with an unfocused but unmistakably hungry look in his eyes. Then he smiles, throwing his arms around Bull’s neck and tugging him forward. The kiss lands on the corner of Bull’s mouth, sloppy and wet, and Bull almost laughs. He steers Dorian where he wants him, keeping his touch light, tentative, even as Dorian tries to press closer.

“Let’s get you back to your room,” Bull says softly when he pulls away. “And keep the ale count down next time.”

Dorian rolls his eyes. “Fine.”


	13. Bianca/Varric - Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original Prompt: "We can never be together" kiss

“You know it has to be this way,” she’d said, her hand slipping away from his chin. He hears it over and over again as he sits on the edge of the bed, watching her pull on her clothes, then her armor. He doesn’t bother to reach for his. _It doesn’t_ , he wants to say, shout, scream. _It shouldn’t. It isn’t fair._

She’s tugging a boot up to her knee when she stops to look up at him. He feels the gaze, but he keeps staring down at the floor. He half expects her to tease him, something about finally leaving him speechless, but she just sighs. Her shadow falls across his feet.

“Varric,” she says. He doesn’t trust himself to look up. He wants to grab her waist, pull her back down into bed, peel all of her clothing back off of her, make her promise to stay, promise they’ll figure something out, they’ll make it work, they’ll find a way.

Make her promise to sacrifice everything and devastate her family and his and stay on the run with him for the rest of their likely very short lives.

“Come on, handsome,” she says, and he winces, but lets her hands smooth over his cheeks and tilt his head up. “One more for the road?”

Her lips are as silky as her voice, and his eyes slip closed, trying to burn the feeling of them into his memory. She lingers, and he thanks her for it even as he wants to beg her to stop.

“Take care of yourself,” she says. “I mean it.”

“Yeah,” he says as she moves to the door, his voice rough and low. “You too.”


	14. Gen (Merrill) - Da'len

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original prompt: kiss on the nose

“Hahren! Hahren! Look what I drew!”

The little girl sprinted toward Merrill, waving a piece of paper in the air. Her dark curls bounced behind her as she ran, and Merrill smiled, crouching low and holding her arms open. The girl giggled as Merrill scooped her up.

“Oh, and what is this?” said Merrill, as the girl held out the drawing. “Is that the vhenadahl?”

“Uh huh,” the girl said. “It’s got branches, see?”

“I do see, very good,” Merrill said. “Tell me what it is again?”

“The vhena…vhen… the tree.”

Merill laughed. “Come on, dalen. You can say it. Vhenadahl.”

“Vhen…a…dahl.”

“There you go,” Merrill said. She pressed a kiss to the girl’s nose, making her giggle again, and set her back down on her feet. “Go on and show your parents, then.”

She watched the girl scamper back across the alienage market and smiled to herself. These weren’t the People she imagined leading all those years ago with her nose in Marethari’s books, but the Creators worked as they would.


	15. Isabela/Aveline - Shut up and kiss me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original prompt: last kiss

“Isabela, what are you—“

Isabela pushes Aveline back into her office, kicking the door shut behind them. She’s kissing her before Aveline can even finish speaking, spinning her until her armor clanks against the wall. 

“Don’t ask questions, big girl,” Isabela says. And because she knows Aveline so damned well, she bites Aveline’s lip before she can try, just hard enough to make her groan.

“That’s it,” Isabela says. She kisses Aveline again as she grips her arms, pulling her away from the wall and steering her, stumbling, toward the desk.

Aveline breaks the kiss when she feels it hit the back of her legs through her armor. “I told you never to do this here, anyone could—“

“Gotta try everything once before the end, right?” Isabela says.

“Wait, what do you mean—“

“Less talking, more stripping,” Isabela says before dragging her teeth along Aveline’s neck and fumbling for the buckles of her armor.

“You’re not making any sense. And I have to go see Hawke, the Arishok just—“

“I have to see Hawke too. It’s quite urgent. I might die. So are you going to help me with these buckles or not?” Isabela says as she finally wrenches one free.

“Can you please take this seriously for one second—“

Isabela pulls back and looks Aveline in the eye. A shadow passes over her face, sobering her so suddenly that Aveline falls silent.

“I _am_ taking this seriously,” Isabela says.

“Isabela…”

But then the look is gone, and Isabela’s grin is sharp. “Last one to come talks to Hawke second.”

“For the love of—“

Isabela kisses her again, hard, and Aveline forgets what she wanted to say.


	16. Cassandra + Varric (shippy if you squint) - Divine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original prompt: "You're the only one I trust to do this"

“Seeker, as impressive as your abilities are, I’m pretty sure you’d have to be a mage to cover a campfire in ice just by staring at it.”

Cassandra’s eyes dart away from the flames. It takes a moment for her to register Varric’s words, and the glare comes seconds too late to have any real heat.

“Did you just compliment me?”

“Thought that might get your attention.”

She sighs. Belatedly, she sees they are alone at the fire–how long has she been sitting here? She’s had three days of travel to sort through her thoughts, but picturing herself in the robes of the Divine still sends her stomach churning every time. She shakes her head in a vain attempt to clear it.

“Did you want something, Varric?”

He shrugs, casting his eyes away from hers. His feet are stretched and crossed in front of him, his hands locked behind his head, the picture of ease, but Cassandra senses something pensive about him. She would tease him back about being lost in thought, but she won’t think of a good line until she’s tucked into her bedroll in a few hours. It never fails.

“You’re about the only person I’ve ever met that might give Fenris a run for his money when it comes to brooding. Except Hero, maybe.”

Cassandra snorts. “I have… much to brood about, lately.”

Varric looks at her for a moment. Then he reaches for a stick laying against the bench he’s seated on and pokes at a log in the fire.

“You wondered earlier why I had no comment for your potential divination?” Varric says, watching the log shift.

Cassandra raises an eyebrow. Varric glances at her and then back at the fire. He shrugs again.

“If anyone’s gotta be on that throne, Seeker, you’re the only one I’d trust to do it.”

Her eyes widen, and he won’t meet them. He stands, brushing a bit of ash and dust from his pants and starting to move around the fire to his tent, pitched behind her. He pauses when he reaches her.

Sighing, he lays a light hand on her shoulder. “I don’t think you’re physically capable of telling a good lie. Maybe that’s what the world needs in its new moral compass.” Her eyebrow rises again, but he’s still looking at his tent. “That, or someone to brow-beat everyone onto the right path.”

He pats her shoulder and moves to his tent. Cassandra turns slowly back to the fire, thinking.


	17. Saemus/Ashaad - Asit tal-eb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original prompt: "Tell me a secret"

They sit on the edge of a cliff, Saemus with his legs dangling over the edge, Ashaad straight-backed against the rocks. Ashaad never fidgets. He is still and steady when his eyes trace the sea, or the coast, or Saemus’s face, and again when his hands translate them to shapes on parchment. His fingers never shake. Saemus envies that stillness, and craves it.

He speaks little; Saemus suspects he knows only fragments of Common, but perhaps he says only what he needs to anyway. Saemus cannot remember meeting anyone in his life that did not have a thousand useless things to say.

“Tell me a secret,” Saemus says, watching the surf crash below his feet. Ashaad speaks little, but Saemus always finds ways to coax him just to hear his voice.

He feels Ashaad’s eyes on him. The silence stretches while the sea recedes, and when it rushes in again, gentle fingers slide beneath Saemus’s chin. Ashaad turns his head until Saemus meets his eyes, and when he does, Ashaad gives him a very small smile.

“ _Asit tal-eb_ ,” says Ashaad. He tugs Saemus by the chin until their lips meet.


	18. M!Hawke/Fenris - Healing magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original prompt: "You're the only one I trust to do this."

“Are you sure?” Hawke says, his fingers light and gentle as he lifts Fenris’s foot into his lap. Blood is already seeping through the haphazard bandage twined just below Fenris’s toes.

“Yes, do it,” Fenris says. His knuckles curl white against the edge of the rock he’s sitting on.

“I could always–”

“You’re the only one I trust to do this,” Fenris says through gritted teeth. “So do it.”

Hawke meets his eyes, then slowly nods and begins unwinding the bandage. Varric and Merrill drifted away awhile ago to keep watch along the path, Maker bless them for their tact. The thorn Fenris stepped on was long and sharp, but pulled back out easily enough. Hobbling Fenris somewhere out of sight of raiders looking for any easy target had proved the more difficult venture.

“Try to relax,” Hawke says, pulling away the last of the bandage.

“Hawke,” Fenris says flatly, leveling an exasperated glare that Hawke just smirks at.

“Right, right. Easy does it, then,” Hawke says. His hands begin to glow. He lets Fenris’s foot rest in the palm of one hand, while the other folds over the top. The light from Hawke’s fingers spreads over Fenris’s foot. His markings there flare a little, and Hawke darts a glance up. Fenris’s eyes are squeezed shut, but he doesn’t flinch, and he doesn’t pull away.

In minutes, the wound is closed. Dried blood lingers on the sole of Fenris’s foot, but with no scar to show for it, and after careful inspection Hawke releases him. Fenris flexes his toes, testing for pain, and then gives Hawke a small smile.

“Thank you,” he says.

“Feel better?” Hawke asks, starting to reach for his gloves. He drops them again when Fenris balls his fist into Hawke’s robe and tugs him up onto his knees.

Despite the grip, the kiss is soft, even chaste, and Hawke doesn’t even have time to reach for Fenris before it’s over.

“Now I feel better,” says Fenris with a smirk. Hawke can’t help but laugh.


	19. Bull/Dorian - Trading scar stories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original prompt: "Just once."

“And this one?” Dorian moves his hand to a long scar on Bull’s bicep, tracing the length of it with his finger.

“Phoenix talon,” says Bull, without looking. “Damn thing caught me on the blind side while I was trying to get Krem back on his feet. Some noble was paying us to get rid of a nest of them that settled too close to one of his favorite hunting grounds. They’re nasty little shits. ‘Least the guy paid well. Skinner made herself a necklace out of the talon. Trophy thing, I guess. She’s the one that took it down. Double strike, right in the side, straight to the heart. It was damn impressive, actually.”

Dorian chuckles. “So that’s what that is.”

He’s sprawled on top of Bull, his chin resting on one arm while the other wanders. They’re both still a little sweaty, and Dorian’s hair is a mess, but Bull seems to love it. His fingers keep straying back to card through it. It feels wonderful, and Dorian can’t find it in himself to care what it looks like when Bull keeps getting this impossibly fond look in his eye every time he touches it.

“And what about this one?” Dorian reaches further up to a long scar spanning Bull’s other shoulder.

“Tal-Vashoth,” Bull says, smoothing a ruffled patch of Dorian’s hair. “Caught me in the market while I was in the middle of it with some Fog Warriors, didn’t see him coming through the haze. Joke was on him, though. Thought he could get me down in one good blow, but I swung right back around and got him in the head. Doubt he even knew what hit him.”

Dorian hums. “You’re rather a wonder, aren’t you? Taking so many blows and coming out in one piece.”

“Is that a compliment I hear?” Bull says, and Dorian pinches him. Bull laughs. “Mmm, yeah, I like it rough.”

“You’re impossible,” Dorian says, but he’s smiling. He folds his arms under his chin, and Bull’s hand rubs along his scalp.

“Have you ever even been afraid of dying? You seem like this unstoppable force sometimes, I–” Dorian catches Bull’s eye and immediately falls silent. Bull’s hand stills.

“Just once,” he finally says, more breath than voice. “The morning I woke up and… couldn’t think of a reason why.”

“Amatus,” Dorian pushes himself up until he can reach Bull’s face, and he slides his hands over Bull’s jaw. He kisses softly, gently, more tender than he knows how to make his words, and Bulls leans up into him, pressing him close.

“I’m sorry,” Dorian whispers, trailing kisses across Bull’s cheek, over his nose. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have–”

“Hey, it’s all right,” Bull says. “I didn’t, anyway. You know. It all worked out. Got my boys. Got here. Got…got you.”

“You did,” Dorian says, pressing another kiss to Bull’s lips. “You do.”

Bull smiles, and leans to kiss a bruise he sucked into Dorian’s neck earlier. His hand trails over Dorian’s hip, along a small but rough ridge of skin there.

“Your turn,” he says into Dorian’s neck. “What’s this one from?”

Dorian glances down and sighs. “Well, you see…”


	20. Bull/Dorian - The morning after

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original prompt: "I've seen the way you look at me when you think I don't notice."

Dorian Pavus is a ruined man.

In the dim morning, in his own room, he can admit that. His thighs still ache, and he knows there are bruises there in the shape of Bull’s fingertips–a memory of pressure and passion alive on his skin. Dorian untangles himself from his sheets, pushing them away. The mountain air slipping through the cracks is cool without a fire in the hearth to fight it back, but, as it turns out, the memory of Bull’s hands is heat enough.

He ought to feel ashamed. There is probably a part of him that does, that will assert itself after his robes are on and his hair is coifed and he’s hunched over his research in the library. But right here, right now, with the door locked and the curtains drawn, the only thing Dorian feels is…well, good.

“I’ve seen the way you look at me,” Bull had said. Krem had dragged a stumbling drunk Rocky out the tavern door only minutes before, leaving Bull and Dorian alone with only a table and a pair of tankards between them. And it seemed that only a moment passed between Bull sitting there across from him, smirking, and Bull leaning over the back of Dorian’s chair, his lips at Dorian’s ear. He shivers as he remembers Bull’s breath on his neck.

Dorian’s hand drifts across his chest of its own accord as the memory takes him. His other hand brushes across his stomach.

“I’ve seen the way you look at me,” Bull had said, low, husky, close enough that his lips brush Dorian’s ear, “when you think I don’t notice.” Dorian’s fingers had tightened around his ale. His eyes darted around, table to table, but no one was there, no one was looking, and the Bull was warm at his back.

“Door’s open,” Bull had said. “That stands. If you’re interested.”

He had stood then, and Dorian’s sudden urge to reach behind him and grab Bull back startled him. He wanted… he wanted… oh Maker, he _wanted_.

Bull hadn’t looked back. He moved past Dorian’s chair and up the stairs. Dorian had lingered at the table until the Bull’s footsteps fell quiet, until the door creaked two floors above – creaked, but didn’t close. And part of him had felt annoyed. Presumptuous arse, to think he was that good. But then came a louder thought: what if he was?

Now, in his room, Dorian bites his lip. Yes, he was. Maker’s breath, Bull really was that good. Dorian’s hand sinks lower, tracing across his thighs, pressing into a bruise flowering there. A groan erupts from his lips.

Dorian had swallowed the rest of his ale in one tip of the tankard and scattered coins on the table. And Bull was waiting for him, that smug bastard, a fire already roaring in the hearth. Dorian had said something. He doesn’t remember what it was, but it made the smirk on Bull’s lips turn sharp. And it got the door closed, and locked, and Dorian pinned up against it by his wrists.

He groans again at that thought, his cock twitching. The _look_ in Bull’s eye, dark and promising, as he loomed over Dorian. Dorian had raised his chin as Bull just stayed like that, just watching him, his grip on Dorian’s wrists tight enough that Dorian’s hands barely budged when he pressed back against it (just to see). Bull had leaned close at that.

“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” he’d whispered, then followed it with a slow drag of his teeth over Dorian’s earlobe, just enough for Dorian to feel it.

Dorian tenses against the bed as he tries to remember the feeling. He slides a hand down his abdomen to take himself in hand.

“You’re the one who started this,” Dorian had said, but his voice fell short of defiance. Too breathless, too wavering, and he couldn’t take his eyes from Bull’s chest…until Bull leaned into view, eyes to eye, and the heat in that gaze was nearly enough to undo Dorian right there. Desire lanced through him.

The echo of it spikes through him again as he pictures Bull’s expression, and Dorian gives himself a slow stroke. He tenses, his breath hitching, then strokes again. His free hand finds another bruise, and presses hard.

“You can be the one to end it, if you say the word. Are you _sure_?” Bull had said.

“Unlike you, I don’t just wander into anyone’s room at random,” Dorian said, trying to keep his voice steady. “I’m quite sure. Now let’s get on with it.”

“That what you think I do?” Bull said, leering. “Hoping I’d wander into yours next?”

“That’s a moot point now, don’t you think?” Dorian said, but he knew it wasn’t a denial, and he was quite sure Bull knew it too. He pushed against the Bull’s grip, feeling it tighten in response. The Bull crowded closer with a low growl, and Dorian grinned. “Anyway. Here we are. Planning on chatting all night, or are you going to do something abo–?”

The Bull kissed him then, and oh, what a thing that was.

Dorian strokes himself as he thinks of the Bull’s lips on his, the Bull’s teeth scraping and teasing, his tongue soothing the sting. He thinks of Bull’s fingers, strong and hot and so very, very large, plucking at Dorian’s buckles like he’d already known how they came loose, holding his hips like Dorian might disappear if he let go. He thinks of the Bull’s words, rough and sweet in Dorian’s ear, snatches of things like _good boy_ and _fuck, gorgeous_ and _come for me, Dorian_.

And he does, spilling over his hand with a cry he turns into the pillow. He sags against the bed, his hand falling away. 

He won’t ever recover from this, if one memory can do this to him, make this much of a mess of him. Frighteningly, he wonders if the Bull will be in the tavern again tonight.


	21. Bull/Dorian - Dragon's Tooth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original prompt: "No one needs to know"

“No one needs to know, kadan.”

Dorian’s fingers stilled where they’d been tracing the ridge of the dragon’s tooth in his hand. The tooth was heavy, much heavier than he expected, and though the craftsman smoothed and polished it, the tip remained sharp. Still, it gleamed in the silver setting, and the flourishes accenting the top in careful curves were beautiful. The other half of it rested against Bull’s chest, catching the light from the window every time he shifted.

“We can keep it between you and me,” Bull was saying. Dorian glanced up a Bull’s arm tightened for a moment around Dorian’s waist. “Just something for us.”

Dorian looked back down at the pendant in his hand. He traced the shape again.

It was a quiet morning. They had the luxury of those, now. Below them, the tavern was waking - chairs scraped against the floor, and silverware clinked against the breakfast dishes, and voices rose to a din.

 _No one needs to know._ Dorian closes his hand around the pendant.

Bull hadn’t even expected him to remember. It was something he’d said once while they shared ale in the tavern, only a few months after they fell into bed together, and two days after they killed their first high dragon with the Inquisitor. Dorian said something to tease him, something about Bull’s obsession with the beasts, and Bull laughed and said something in return about Qunari legends.

“There’s even an old tradition, for when you really care about someone,” he’d said, pushing his tankard aside to lean over the table. 

Dorian had never felt so ridiculously in love in his life as when he stood–-as blessedly, miraculously alive as Bull was–-at the head of Corypheus’s dead dragon and asked the Inquisitor for a tooth.

It took the craftsman six days to finish them, and another week for the messenger to reach Skyhold. And then another three days after that for Dorian’s nerves to calm enough for him to carry them with him to Bull’s room. In the stillness of the early morning, after sleepy kisses deepened and wandering hands found purpose, they had lain entwined together while the sunlight brightened on the bedsheets, and the time seemed right.

But now as he rested against Bull’s side, he hesitated. _No one needs to know._ He knew what Bull was offering. He knew that the significance of it wouldn’t diminish if he hid the pendant beneath his robes. He knew the words he whispered to Bull as he hooked the pendant around Bull’s neck wouldn’t mean any less. Bull knew Dorian’s reasons. “My affairs are…my affair,” Dorian said once to Sera, bristling when she giggled. Bull wouldn’t mind, wouldn’t question, wouldn’t speak, if Dorian asked.

But no, Bull deserved better than being Dorian’s poorly-kept secret, after all of this. Dorian didn’t cut a tooth from the bloody maw of an ancient magister’s dead pet only to hide it under his clothes. He didn’t give it to Bull on an idle whim, hadn’t breathed the most terrifyingly honest words ever to pass his lips to Bull without meaning every syllable. There was no one waiting to ruin him on the other side of the bedroom door, no one cataloging every stolen kiss, every brush of Bull’s hand against Dorian’s thigh under the table, every heated glance. They wouldn’t pile up into a scandal that would buckle the foundation of life as Dorian knew it. If he could stand at the edge of World’s End and live to see the sun rise whole in the sky, he could stand in the tavern and let Sera tease and Varric pry and the Chargers hoot and laugh. He could bear the whispers and the stares if they came, and whatever else might come with them. He could do it for Bull. It was worth it.

Dorian raised his eyes to Bull’s again, letting the dragon’s tooth drop against his chest. He shifted, rising up on his knees to straddle Bull’s waist, and his hands slid up to cup Bull’s jaw.

“Everyone should know,” he said. He leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to Bull’s lips, and then another, this one lingering, slow, sweet. And when they parted, Dorian whispered in the bare half inch between them, “Let them see.”

“Kadan,” Bull breathed, and Dorian smiled.


	22. Vivienne gives Dorian love advice (Bull/Dorian)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original prompt: "I think I'm in love with you and I'm terrified."

“You know, darling, brooding into the fire like that does absolutely dreadful things to your skin.”

Vivienne spares a sidelong glance and a quirk of her lips when Dorian jumps. She adds, “You’ll be counting crow’s feet inside of a week.”

They’re seated on a bench in front of the campfire in the hills outside Crestwood, just above the ruins of the old village. A breeze blows in now and again from the lake, setting the old buildings creaking and carrying the musty smell of wet wood and seaweed with it. The rain, at least, has left them, though clouds still hang low and heavy in the night sky. She has no doubt Dorian finds it the perfect dramatic backdrop for his mood.

Vivienne’s staff rests low across her knee, blade in the air. She looks back down as she slides a polishing rag across the metal and waits for Dorian to gather himself.

“I would think you’d welcome the loss of competition,” he says, and if it takes him a moment too long for him to think of it, Vivienne graciously pretends not to notice and smirks.

“You fancy yourself my competition? How precious. For what, I wonder?” Vivienne says. She examines the edge of the blade, looking carefully for signs of rust blossoming along the metal. Beside her, Dorian scoffs, then sighs.

“If you are spoiling for a fight, madame, I’m afraid I’ll have to point you to Sera’s tent for your entertainment,” Dorian says. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him shift forward, elbows to his knees, head bowing.

“Indeed,” Vivienne says. “You’ve been distracted since we left the outpost this morning, and you very nearly lost your head to an undead archer. Whatever will they say if the necromancer falls to a corpse?”

That gets Dorian to straighten again, ready to protest, and Vivienne looks over at him, raising an eyebrow. Before he can speak, she continues, “Incidentally, my dear, I am merely concerned your lack of focus may endanger any one of us, or you, once again, and I suggest clearing your head before it does. I have no desire to meet my demise in this wetland, nor to inform the Iron Bull of yours.”

Dorian’s eyes widen. Then he looks away, muttering an epithet under his breath.

“Yes, consider the message quite clearly received. And I’ll thank you to leave my personal affairs out of it,” he says to the fire through gritted teeth.

“I rather think your personal affairs are to blame for getting you into it, darling,” says Vivienne as she turns the blade, scouring the other side for wear. “But, as you say.”

“I’m beginning to feel as if that lummox climbed on the tavern roof and shouted it to all of Skyhold,” Dorian grumbles.

Vivienne pauses her polishing to look at him again, studying him as she had the staff blade. “Well, I, for one, hardly needed the Iron Bull’s proclamations. It’s written all over you whenever he’s near.”

Dorian stiffens, his expression flitting from indignation to something like seasickness. His hands ball into fists at his lap. Behind them, one of the rickety buildings groans in the wind.

“Oh, do relax. What you and the Bull do between the two of you is, as you said, your affair,” Vivienne says. She lays the rag aside and carefully raises the staff to check the leather of the grip.

A moment of silence, too long. When Dorian finally speaks, he fumbles for ease, but his voice is too sharp, too strained, and Vivienne wonders how he ever managed in the courts at Tevinter. He says, “Written all over me, is it? You admit to spending so much time basking in my beauty, then, to see such a thing?”

“You flatter yourself it is hidden enough to warrant that?” Vivienne says. The counter is too easy, and Dorian knows it–she can tell in the way he deflates beside her, shoulders slumping.

“Wonderful,” Dorian mutters. “Just wonderful.”

“Is that what all this is about?” Vivienne lays the staff carefully aside. “All of your distraction?”

“I’ve no desire to discuss this with you,” Dorian says.

“As you wish,” says Vivienne. She rises to her feet, the tails of her dress settling around her legs.

“Is it… truly that obvious?”

Vivienne looks down at him, but Dorian has returned his stare to the fire, still slumped forward. He looks not unlike a child being told he received low marks on his lessons, and Vivienne places her hands on her hips.

“Which is your concern: that others see it, or that Bull does?” she asks.

When Dorian winces, Vivienne lowers herself back down onto the bench. Dorian folds his hands together and keeps his gaze ahead.

“Put like that… both, I suppose,” he says.

“Bull does not know of your affections?” Vivienne says.

“ _Affections_ , Maker,” Dorian says. “You make it sound as if I’m seeking to court him.”

“You are not children in the first blush of feelings,” Vivienne agrees with a soft chuckle. “But I am correct in assuming there are feelings?”

Dorian’s hands tighten. Vivienne raises an eyebrow.

“Qunari do not do ‘feelings’,” Dorian says. The fire pops in front of him, and an ember falls near his feet.

“You of all people should know that just because a thing is forbidden does not mean it does not occur,” Vivienne says patiently. Dorian looks up at her, a little taken aback.

“Has the Bull told you he has no interest in such things?” Vivienne asks.

“How in the Maker’s name am I supposed to casually broach that subject? ‘Hello, Bull, lovely weather we’re having. By the way, I think I’m in love with you and I’m terrified,’” Dorian says, bobbing his head in his theatrics. He pauses when he stops, his eyes widening a little. Then his gaze snaps back to Vivienne. “Not that… that is… _kaffas_.”

Vivienne lets a small smile spread across her lips as Dorian splutters. Then she says, “My dear, the world may be ending. The sky is quite literally falling. Love is a rare enough thing in the best of times, and if it is real, it is worth the risk to seek it, would you not agree?”

Dorian frowns. “Love is not a luxury I ever believed I’d be able to afford. And it was not part of our… arrangement.”

Vivienne chuckles. “Love does not let us choose its timing. But we _can_ choose our regrets.”

Dorian looks down at his hands, then presses them to his face, letting out a deep exhale. In a voice small enough that Vivienne leans closer to hear him, he says, “And if it destroys everything?”

She sighs, folding her hands carefully in her lap as she considers. “The Bull is not a cruel man. But if he should not return your feelings, then you face Corypheus, and whatever else may catch your ambition, with a clear head and nothing to lose, the stronger for what you have learned. If he does return them, then you fight with purpose and with determination, the stronger for what you have earned.”

Vivienne rises to her feet again, bending to reach for her staff. She lays a hand on Dorian’s shoulder when she straightens.

“Men like Bull are few and far between, darling,” she says. “You would do well to consider that.” 

Dorian swallows. “I… thank you.”

“Thank me by returning your focus to the fight,” Vivienne says. Her hand falls away as she moves toward her tent.

She pauses at the tent flap, watching Dorian’s shoulders slowly rise, his back straighten. She thinks for a moment of a much younger girl, smiling across an opulent ballroom at a man she didn’t expect to smile back. How her heart fluttered when he did. She sighs, letting the tent flap fall closed.


	23. Bull/Dorian - Slap on the ass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I joked around about what might happen if Bull tried to slap Dorian on the ass the way he does with the Inquisitor, and [AislinCade](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/AislinCade) asked me to write it.

Dorian’s leaning against the wall when Bull steps out of the tavern. He’s watching the Chargers practice, hips tilted just enough to give Bull a good eyeful of his (quite frankly) gorgeous ass. Bull smiles, turning his palm out and lifting it back.

“Hey, big guy.”

Across the courtyard, the Inquisitor is talking quietly with Josephine, leaning close to see where Josephine’s finger jabs at her clipboard. She turns to explain the line to the Inquisitor just in time to hear an unearthly squawk sound from somewhere near the tavern, loud enough to frighten a flock of crows into flight off the battlements. The Inquisitor and Josephine look up sharply, Josephine nearly dropping her clipboard.

The sound is followed immediately by a bright burst of flame, and then…and then, there is all seven feet of the indomitable Iron Bull charging across the grass with the seat of his pants aflame. The Iron Fireball careens through a small crowd of scouts, then past two visiting Orlesian nobles that barely leap back in time, and finally leaping ass-first into a wide basin of rain water along the Keep wall.

For a moment, all sound in the courtyard completely ceases. Then, from the rooftop near the back of the tavern, a shrieking laugh that can only be Sera’s echoes off the walls.

“Shite!” she shouts, slapping the roof tiles, “That… was the greatest thing… I’ve ever seen in my life.”

A snicker bursts from behind Krem’s lips, and that sets the Chargers off, collapsing on top of each other. Then, one by one, the rest of the crowd erupts into laughter. And in the middle of it all stands a red-faced Dorian, with every eye turning in his direction.

After a moment he straightens, brushes some likely imaginary dust from the front of his leathers, and takes a deep bow. The crowd, delighted, begins to applaud. Dorian makes an admirably dignified if very hurried exit through the tavern door, which just happens to be the nearest.

Meanwhile, back against the wall, the Iron Bull’s laugh rings out above all the rest. He lifts a thumbs up into the air where he sits sprawled in the barrel.

“Completely worth it!”


End file.
